Some more Damien Drake

But only a little.

A story in many parts by the Safeer

(continued from last paragraph)...The thing quickly regained its composure, and eyed me levelly. It didn't seem offended, which was a good sign.
'You are... the human? My sources... Damien Drake, am I correct?' gentle and unassuming, the voice seemed feminine in nature, but I still couldn't be certain about its gender. He, she, it, for want of a better way to describe them, looked like a deformed emu wearing a coat. In place of feathers, thick golden-brown fur covered the entire length of its body. Fingers like large, delicate needles protruded from its equally long and slender arms, rather than wings, and in place of a beak, long, rubbery lips, no doubt hiding needle-thin teeth. Perhaps it wasn't much like an emu. My mind and I got re-acquainted and by then I was pretty damn certain: this was a Kemorhan.
'Yeah. I help people. Finding things. Finding other people. I assume your sources already told you that, though. So, what the hell is a Kemorhan doing in the galaxy's greatest landfill?' Kemorhans were a pretty high class people. Pacifists, sure, but sharp as a scythe, the frontiersman of peacekeeping technologies. And they weren't generally the dirty types, by nature. There were exceptions: take off a Kemorhan's 'head', and all you'd be doing is taking out an auxiliary brain. You wouldn't have time to find out where to really hit them: their survival instincts kick into overdrive and you'd be a new layer of carpet before you had a chance to find out.
'Something – something terrible has happened to me. The law here, they can not help me – and my own people have abandoned me. They said that you were useful.' Cold way of putting it, but it was true. 'Mr Drake – you must help me. Payment will not be an obstacle. Please, just – accept my offer and come with me, I can say no more unless you agree to that.' I rubbed at my forehead with my fingers. She – 'cause I just couldn't shake off that air of femininity about it – sounded genuine. And I could definitely use the cash. But something itched at my scalp, not painful but merely irritating. Something was definitely odd here. Something obvious, but out of reach. I was still groggy from my placidity. What was I missing?

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Damien Drake - Private Investigator

A story in many parts by the Safeer

My eyes wandered listlessly over the minutiae of life thrumming across my vision. My mind was drifting again. A finger traced across groove across the dust covered desk behind me, a path to nowhere in particular. As always, the past resurfaced, like an ugly corpse torn from the weight that tied it down. An unwanted memory flashed, bobbed, sunk again, only to be replaced by one more gruesome. Introspection, an ugly habit. Work was scarce, my proverbial wallet emptier than a Pusher's soul, no cash even for the cheap booze that was my fuel. I was settling in for another day of boredom and self-pity when three sharp knocks broke me out of my comfortable stupor.
I turned away from the window and turned my attention to the door. A tiny head atop a slender neck poked through the door, inspecting my claustrophobic little hole I call the office. The rest of the creature followed, cautious, probing. Damn. An Outie. This could be just what I needed.
'Can I help you?' Not leaving the table, I extend my right 'arm' to the stranger. He, she, it, stiffens at the long, sinuous tentacle that passes for a greeting, visibly unnerved. I smile inwardly. Sure, I needed the job, but I always got a perverse little kick outta that part.

(Continued soon)

Yep, I'm trying to write prose of sorts. You don't have much to go off yet here, but comment away.

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